


Death is a Revolving Door

by HushTheNoise



Category: Dead Like Me, Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied impending death sort of, Implied slash if you squint, Mentions of canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HushTheNoise/pseuds/HushTheNoise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Hannibal Kinkmeme</p><p>Upper Management wears plaid suits and paisley ties and he's got a small delivery to make in the form of a young Reaper girl he borrowed for a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death is a Revolving Door

**Author's Note:**

> Georgia in all her incarnations is my actual favorite, and this is to make me, and anyone else, feel better after this past Thursday.

Rube is twitchy. A spoon tapping against the table, fingers tapping on his chin, his foot never ceasing its urgent _thump-thump-thump_ beneath the table.

Rube is twitchy, and as the usual suspects of a little booth at Der Waffle Haus slide into their seat, they take note and react accordingly. Mostly by ordering the strongest coffee that Kiffany will dare to serve them without fearing a lawsuit (something called a “Hammerhead”), and their chosen brand of beyond-the-grave comfort food.

_tink-tink-tink-tap-tap-tap-thump-thump-thump_

It goes on long enough that Mason picks up the sound as a nervous tick, and still nobody utters a word. Daisy tucks a lock of blonde hair behind her ear with a long sigh, and Roxy’s face is contorted into a deeper scowl than most mornings, but you can almost hear the one thought lingering in the air between them.

_**He’s** coming._

Rube refuses to talk about him. Mason used to wheedle Rube about it on a regular basis before each Visit, until he made the mistake of being, well... Mason in his presence. For about four days after Mason’s bout of unfortunate rudeness, he failed to show up to Der Waffle Haus for his assignments. Which would have been a bigger problem if assignments had actually _arrived_ for him during that period. No one could figure out where he’d gone, either.

When he finally resurfaced, he was at least four shades paler and seemed to have a little trouble leaning forward, backwards, side to side, and really just moving in general. From then on, you’d hardly know Mason is even in the booth during The Visits. Often he desperately tries not to be.

He still won’t talk about it.

Daisy doesn’t understand how anyone can dislike a man of such curiously cultivated taste, as she’s repeatedly wondered aloud, and never fails to make a comment on his shoes or his tie or one of those weird plaid suits Roxy just cannot wrap her mind around.

But then again, Roxy just straight up doesn’t like the man. In true Roxy fashion, she’s not exactly shy about it either, but somehow it’s never gotten her in trouble, much to Mason’s complete and utter shock (and outrage, if he’s being perfectly honest). He and Daisy have theorized that maybe he actually likes Roxy. Neither of them is sure of whether that’s a good or bad thing.

Normally she’d try to bail with Mason and leave Daisy and Rube to rot, but today is a special occasion, and all of them feel a strange sense of obligation to be there. After all, he’s not arriving alone today, and to the four Reapers, his delivery is infinitely more important to them than his presence.

But even Roxy (especially Roxy) has her limit.

“For real, Rube, how long this gonna take?” she gripes, draining the last of her coffee and strongly considering wrestling another cup out of Kiffany. “Some of us got day jobs to keep.” She doesn’t bother with a glare at Mason, it always floats right through his empty head.

“He’ll get here when he gets here,” gruffs Rube as he taps the tip of his ballpoint pen against his coffeecup. He doesn’t enjoy being rattled, likes giving the appearance of being so even less, so his last nerve is being rubbed raw barely a few hours into the morning.

“S’rude to keep people waiting, I’ll tell you that--”

“And I do apologize for any inconvenience I might have caused, our flight was delayed,” a smooth, but distinctly accented voice cuts in, and Mason straightens so quickly it’s a miracle his spine doesn’t fracture. In contrast, Rube seems to relax, but only after a quick glance around their guest at the approaching figure behind him.

“Dr. Lecter, good of you to join us,” says the oldest Reaper with a level of amiability reserved solely for this particular occasion, motioning for the psychiatrist to have a seat. “I trust the airline food was semi-edible?”

“I would not know, I make a habit of packing my own meals,” Hannibal answers as he remains standing, his gaze circling the booth and settling on each member in turn. “Roxy, Daisy, Mason, you’re all looking well. I’m afraid I can’t stay for long, pressing business back in Baltimore calls for my attention. I only came to see her back safely.” He turns as his petite companion reaches the booth, a knapsack thrown over her shoulder and wearing a disgruntled expression.

“Hey, Peanut, had a good time in the land of the living?” Rube asks with a small smile, and as far as anyone can tell, that seems to be relief on his face.

“Oh sure, a _roaring_ time, except for maybe all the blood, skin peeling, and, oh right-- _the spontaneous barbeque inside an oxygen chamber_ ,” she grumbles as she drops into the booth, next to Rube, shooting Hannibal a seething glare.

“And I apologized for the rather violent end, it was the only way to extract you safely,” Hannibal replies, tone of voice making it clear that this is a complaint he’s dealt with for the majority of their trip back.

“Warn a girl next time, huh? I was just getting used to my body, too...” Georgia combs her fingers through her hair with a sigh, knowing that her appearance is back to its usual unrecognizable self. At least this particular appearance is nicer to look at than that borderline _corpse_  she'd been falling to pieces in...

“Reminds me, something for you, must’ve been dropped here by mistake,” Rube cuts in as he hands Lecter a yellow post-it note. He doesn’t miss the way his face tightens as he reads the initials on the note: _A.H._

Rube doesn’t know who A.H. is, but something tells him Hannibal does, and he has no interest in knowing anything about what’s going on there. The more oblivious he stays to this particular Reaper’s machinations, the better.

Really that seems to be everyone below upper management’s stance on the man, which sometimes has Rube wondering how up in “Upper Management” Hannibal must be. And then he remembers that he just doesn’t want to know.

“Thank you, I’ll see to it this is taken care of,” Hannibal answers, and Rube ignores the goosebumps prickling along his arms just then as Lecter turns to address their youngest member. “Georgia, thank you again for your assistance in this matter, I understand how distasteful it must have been for you. Nonetheless, it was appreciated.”

She folds her arms, glancing off to the side with a scowl. “Back to your precious Will, then? You know I think he can handle being on his own for two days. Staying in the hospital seemed like a vacation to him after everything we--.”

“ _Georgia..._ ” The air chills and Mason seems to curl into his corner of the booth a bit more. Georgia only huffs, her face softening.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” she murmurs, and Daisy nudges her gently with her foot beneath the table, a small gesture of comfort for everything George must have gone through.

“Well, I’m afraid I must be going. Pleasure seeing you all,” Hannibal declares, nodding to Georgia last, who resolutely ignores him as she digs her fork into the waffles Kiffany drops off in front of her.

“Until next time, Dr. Lecter,” Rube says with a small wave, and Hannibal turns before exiting the small establishment, a taxi waiting outside. The change is instantaneous as the air relaxes and clears, and Mason leans toward George with a bright grin.

“Nice to have you back, Georgie. What’s all this about a barbequeue?”

“Eat your fucking waffles.”


End file.
